Harry Potter and the Parseltongue Trophy
by KneazleGirl
Summary: It's book 6 and Voldemort has the evillest plan EVER! Well, sort of. A talking trophy, a not very evil evil plan, and more general weirdness within. You have been warned.
1. The Mysterious Voice

Intro: "Harry Potter and the Parseltongue Trophy" is one of those copyrighted titles that JKR will never actually used, but they copyrighted it anyway just because. It's true, look it up if you don't believe me. I laughed when I saw it. Then I started thinking, "What would a parseltongue trophy even be? Do they give it to you for being a parseltongue? Or maybe..."

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except my copies of the books and all the other stuff in my house. Credit to my friend phoenixelfgirl for some ideas. All spelling and puntuation mistakes are the site's fault. Review if you like it!

Caution: General randomness and OOCness! This was written late at night, when I had too much sugar, with breaks of several months in between most chapters. Contrary to common sense, though, I DO know how the story will turn out. I just don't know what will happen before that.

Chapter One: The Mysterious Voice

Harry sat in his room at the Dursley's, staring out his window and waiting for his O.W.L. scores to come, so he could finally disprove all those people that think he might not have gotten an O in DADA, or might have passed astronomy, or whatever. Suddenly, out of nowhere, he heard a voice. It sounded like a hiss, but at the same time, he could understand what it was saying. It said, "Mwahaha! I am evil! Hum, I mean :cough: never mind!"

Harry stared. Or, he would have, if he had known who or what to stare at. Was it one of those voices in his head? No, that _definitely _didn't sound like Voldemort. Who, then, could it be? Maybe he should ask it. "Who are you?" he hissed, imagining a giant snake like the basilisk he had fought in his second year. He waited, then realized he wasn't quite sure it _was _a "who". "What are you?" he tried again.

"Hm, well, oh, I don't think I can tell you that." came the response. Harry glanced around the room to try to place the source of the voice. "But I CAN tell you what I'm NOT. A trophy, that's what. Nope. No talking trophies here." Harry, being the bright sixth-year Hogwarts student he was, was immediately suspicious at the voice's statement. There WAS a trophy in this room. One of Dudley's, because in fact this room had once been Dudley's in the distant past, say, about 5 books ago. However, for reasons that will remain unexplained in this fanfic, it was a boxing trophy-- a recent one. Very recent in fact. This trophy, Harry suddenly realized, had not been here the day before. (Harry, you see, was very observant in these matters-- unfortunately not so much so in matters of two-way mirrors that might solve all his problems instantly...but that is another story.)

The second he realized this, he snatched the trophy off its shelf. "Hey! Put me down!" protested the snakelike voice, then its tone changed to, "Oh... I mean, yep, that's a trophy alright, a normal, not-suspicious, non-parseltongue-speaking trophy. But that's definitely not _me_." Harry knew better than to believe the voice, though, as it was quite clearly coming from the shiny gold object in his hand. (It was very shiny indeed-- Harry noticed this and thought immediately of a normal, muggle girl who fell through platform 9 3/4... but that is another fanfic.)

"Erm..." said Harry. He could not think of why there would possibly be a talking trophy in his bedroom-- and speaking parseltongue, no less! "Hang on!" he said, suddenly remembering, "Dumbledore told me that Voldemort was the only one besides me who can speak parseltongue! Why can one of Dudley's stupid trophies speak it? That makes no sense!" "No, it is certainly very unusual," the voice agreed, before coughing once more and adding "What I meant was, It's not strange at all, actually it's nothing for you to take notice of. Now, if you'd just put me back on the shelf..." "Oh no," said Harry, thinking sensibly for once, "I've got to write to professor Dumbledore."


	2. The Letters

Chapter Two: The Letter(s)

"Dear Professor,

Sorry to bother you, but today I found out something very odd, there is a trophy in my room that can talk. That may not sound very important, I know, but it was speaking parseltongue, and you told me that Voldemort was the last remaining descendent (or was it ancestor?) of Salazar Slytherin"

At this point Harry stopped to ponder, does that mean this _trophy _was descended from Slytherin? No, Dumbledore wouldn't have lied to him about something this important-- as this was, in fact, the key to books 6 and 7. But you need not know that. Harry continued to write,

"I don't reckon this trophy could be related to Slytherin, as it's much too shiny."

He paused to suck the end of his quill, forgetting that it was not a sugar quill from Honeydukes. It tasted like an owl. He was suddenly reminded that, to send his letter, he needed to find Hedwig. He signed the letter and rolled it up. "Hedwig? Hedwig!" He called, quite forgetting that the Dursleys were asleep. "Accio Hedwig!" He exclaimed impatiently. (Once again failing to remember the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry) Hedwig immediately _whooshed _in through the window backwards. "Hey, it worked! What about... Accio a diet coke with lime!" One _fwooshed _up the stairs from the direction of the kitchen. "Brilliant! Hang on, I have a better idea: Accio the answer to my letter!" It flew in, as Hedwig had, moments later. "Hmm..." He was suddenly struck by an idea. "Accio book seven!" He waited eagerly, but the only thing to _whoosh _in was a small note on parchment: "Ha. Nice try. -JKR"

"Oh well." He hadn't thought it would work, but hey, you never know. He sat down to read Dumbledore's response to the letter he had written just moments before (and had still not sent, but I'm not about to remind him of that). It said,

"I agree that this is a very serious matter, I'll go ask my secret army of... eh, I mean, I shall discuss the matter with the rest of the Order immediately. brb."

There was a space, and the letter continued.

"I've just talked to them, and they agree-- be careful what you say around that trophy! Since it is obviously neither you nor Voldemort, and no one else can speak parseltongue, it is highly possible that the trophy in question may be being controlled by Voldemort."

Harry sat back, stunned by this news. He hadn't thought of that... but now that he did, he spun around in his spinny chair and walked over to his bed, where the trophy sat innocently humming to itself.

"_Are _you being controlled by Voldemort?" Harry demanded. "What? NO of course not where did you hear that, it's not true I tell you just a nasty rumor, probably originated in knockturn alley or some such unreliable place." The trophy continued to chatter on to itself, but Harry was no longer listening. "That settles it then." He walked back over to his desk, pulling out a fresh sheet of parchment. This was turning out to be a very interesting birthday after all.


	3. The Plan

Chapter 3: The _PLAN_

Meanwhile, at Voldemort's top-secret hideout...

"MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Voldemort laughed maniacally, spinning in his spinny chair, and unaware that Harry Potter was also spinning at that same moment, many miles away. "My _EVIL PLAN _is a success. I win again!"

Wormtail yawned. "Remind me again how beating me at "Snakes and Ladders" is part of your evil plan, sir."

Voldemort rolled his eyes. "Because snakes are evil, duh. This is the only board game I could find that has snakes in it. And with my _EVIL PLAN_, I can never lose!"

Wormtail was dozing off, but he was soon awakened by a kick from Voldemort. "Hnnnh? Wh- what evil plan is that, sir?"

Voldemort grinned evilly and sat back in his spinny chair. "Well... if you start by taking the third ladder from the top..." He paused, then scowled. "You think I'm going to trust an imbecile like you with the details of my _EVIL PLAN_? Besides, you can't even say it right." He kicked Wormtail again. "And stop falling asleep while I'm lecturing you!"

"I'm awake..." Wormtail mumbled, his eyes half closed "You were just talking about your evil plan."

"No, no, no. It's _EVIL PLAN_! _EVIL... PLAN!_ Pronounce it just like that, with the capital letters and italics!" He waited, then aimed another kick at wormtail, who quickly opened his eyes.

"Evil plan." Wormtail mumbled with as much enthusiasm as he could. Then, to distract Voldemort, who was looking murderous, he said "Sir, why are we playing board games this late at night, again?"

"Can't you ever remember anything I tell you?" Voldemort ranted. "We are waiting for a report from my spy in the house of Harry Potter!" Voldemort's eyes glowed red with pride as he thought about his best scheme ever. "At this moment, my spy is undoubtedly collecting some invaluable information about Harry Potter. Soon I will have my revenge! MWAHAHAHA!" He cackled with laughter. "But until then, we must wait. Though I suppose we could play poker. No, poker doesn't sound very evil. Crazy eights? Gin rummy?" He frowned at the obvious non-evil-soundingness of these card games.

"Blackjack sounds a bit evil, sir." Wormtail suggested.

Voldemort considered this for a few moments, then his face fell. "No, I need something truly evil, like 'The Dark Bloody Evil Serpent Demon Spork Death Murder Card Game of DOOM!" He smiled, then realized that this was definitely not a real card game. "Maybe we could make it up?" He began, turning to look at Wormtail. The minion was fast asleep and snoring, having drugged himself with sleep potion to escape Voldemort's ranting.

"Drat. I'll just have to play solitaire then." Voldemort tried to shuffle the cards, which immediately went flying in every direction. He glared at them, strewn across the floor of the dungeon.

"Oh, this is boring. Perhaps my spy has some news for me. Now, where did I put my Secret Room of Plottingness?" Recently, Voldemort had had the brilliant idea of moving the entrance to his top-secret workspace to a different area every day. However, this often caused some unforseen problems. "Is it behind the shower curtain? No, that was last week. Behind the plasma TV? No, we don't have a plasma TV." As Voldemort wandered around his secret hideout, muttering to himself, some other stuff was happening...


	4. Not At the Burrow Yet

Chapter 4: Not At The Burrow Yet

Harry knew he had to leave the Dursley's, because it was already chapter four, but he didn't know what to do about the trophy. It was probably a bad idea to just leave it here unwatched, but if he took it with him, it could be dangerous. Harry pondered this. His mind remained blank, as usual. After a while, he suddenly realized what he should do.

"Of course! When in doubt, go to The Burrow!" Harry knew that even if the Weasleys couldn't help him with his trophy problem, their antics would at least distract the reader so they wouldn't realize that the author has no idea what is going to happen next, and is making up everything as she goes along.

Of course, Harry didn't have any floo powder, the ability to apparate, or any of the other things wizards generally need when they travel. He could have flown on his broom, but that would have taken a few paragraphs, and he wanted to speed the story along. He decided to try a more direct method.

"Accio me... to the Burrow!" He said hesitantly. Well, it had worked in the last chapter. This time, however, nothing happened. He tried again.

"Accio all the distance between me and the Burrow, and drop me off somewhere nearby." Again, nothing. He began to get annoyed, then desperate, then finally angry.

"Er... Reverse-Accio me... to the Burrow? No? Then maybe... Accio a convenient space-time hole that I can walk through to the Burrow? Accio another dimension in which I am already standing in front of the Burrow? Hmm... well then, accio, er... ACCIO THE BURROW!"

He paused for a few seconds, feeling a bit stupid, when there was a sudden large "CRUNCH" as the Burrow flew through the air, landed on the Dursley's house, and crushed all its occupants. Except Harry, who had been saved when he fell through a plothole that conveniently led to the front yard outside what was now the Burrow. He walked slowly up to the door and opened it.

"Harry? You're not supposed to come here till chapter five! " Said a surprised Ron, his arms full of socks of various colors and sizes. "Didn't you read the chapter title?" he added.

"I didn't come here, YOU did. " said Harry, "Er... is this a bad time?"

"Well," said Ron, moving his pile of socks aside so that Harry could step into the house, "not really, but we're not through setting up yet."

"Setting what up?"

"Oh, all the conspiracies that have to take place during the book, hidden clues and that sort of thing. You know."

"Er... no." Harry admitted, as they started up the flight of stairs to the kitchen.

"It's very simple, really," said Ron. "We organize all the little hints and things and put them all around the book where the fans will spot them. Then they spend all their time discussing the things instead of figuring out how you're going to defeat Voldemort. Works very nicely."

"I... don't quite follow." Harry said confusedly.

Ron sighed and put his stack of socks down onto a table in front of his brother George, who was already sorting through a sizeable pile. "Well, for example, George is in charge of the sock conspiracy." George grinned up at Harry. Ron pointed to Fred, on the other side of the room. "Fred here does all the number twelves in the book..." Fred glanced up from painting a snake onto a sign that said "Number Twelve Grimmauld Place" and waved to Harry. "Then there's Ginny, she does the color purple and- Don't!" Ron stopped Harry as he was about to poke his head into a room in which splatters of purple paint could be seen flying in all directions. "I told you, we're not done yet."

They continued down the hallway. "Percy takes care of the 'Not-So-Obvious-Clues-To-Throw-the-Fans-Off,' Charlie does the "Really-Well-Hidden-Clues-That-Don't-Actually-Mean-Anything" and Bill there is nearly done with the "Clues-So-Obvious-They'll-Never-Suspect-They're-The-Key-To-Book-Seven."

Harry nodded, dumbfounded.

"Then there's Mum, she cooks and does the dishes and such, and Dad's in charge of all the shiny muggle objects that happen to speak ancient animal languages," Ron finished.

NOTE TO READERS: This is all I have written so far, and unless I get some reviews it'll probably be a few months untill I feel random enough to write another chapter.


End file.
